


Dwellings

by Inevitable



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 02:42:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2605628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inevitable/pseuds/Inevitable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'I feel as though our household is breaking up, Carson.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dwellings

i.

In a way, it had started at Christmas that year, in another, it had already ended, even before Rose had married Atticus. Rose, little Rose, who she has fond memories of as a girl, running along the corridors of Duneagle, with those blonde curls trailing behind her, who reminded her of herself a bit, and of Sybil, a lot. Who bloomed and blossomed in this changing world, and whom she tried to look after properly, the way she never could Sybil. Her young cousin married, settled, no longer the squirming little flapper Matthew had taken under his wing, but an elegant dove poised to leave the ground, beautiful in her wedding dress without a veil, in a chapel without a vicar. Pretty in the way roses are before they wilt, before the petals begin to fall. Mary could see her the stars in her eyes that morning, recognised the unguarded looks of a girl who knew only soft bilberry, heather in her hair, of bouquets with the thorns pulled out, and she smiled. She smiled and said nothing, pressed a kiss to her sister’s forehead, with cool dry lips, a kiss for good luck and goodbye.

ii.

Then, she thinks, it must have been after Christmas, the way many new chapters begin. Like Matthew’s and her story, which had been frozen in time until the show had started to fall, until that wonderful night when she didn’t have a coat on and it hadn’t mattered, because none of it had mattered when he sank down to one knee. And Tom and Sybil’s tale, whose pages turned too quickly, and their last Yuletide brought news of a young Branson on its way. Sybil, who believed in Father Christmas until she was almost twelve, whom Carson indulged one happy year by wearing a white beard and red coat, Sybil, who would stand on stepping stools that were much too high, with Mrs Hughes behind her, said that she could decorate the tree all on her own. Perhaps that is why Mary pampered little Sybbie that final season, indulged her the way she did. Had taken her onto her lap, and presented a saddle and gloves wrapped in soft crepe paper, told her that it was only the first part of Aunt Mary’s surprise, recounted stories of her Mama racing horses, and left out the parts where Mary had let her win.

Tom had been upset with her that evening, to find them shivering in the hallway, had wrapped them both in blankets by the fire, and kissed all the little cuts and bruises on his daughter’s hands that came from riding your first pony. Said then to Mary, with a sad smile, that Sybil would not have wanted this, for himself or their daughter, that Boston was the only place that they might start anew, and she hated that he was right. Hated to say goodbye to the living image of her sister, the last piece of her that she held dearly to her bosom, and to the chauffeur who had become her brother, whom she said nothing to then, when he extended the same hand to her father and then to Carson, to Barrow and Bates, pretended not to notice the kiss he pressed to Mrs Hughes’ cheek, after Mama’s and Mrs Crawley’s.

iii.

Then his ship left the harbour and the New Year swept in with promise; seedlings of hope began to sprout, burgeon, and it wouldn’t be long until they had good news, Papa was fond of saying, would be any day now that they prove Anna’s innocence. Anna, who had been nothing but innocent in all this, and deserved none of the censure that fate had struck upon her. For whom, out of loyalty rather than convenience, Mary learnt to dress herself, muddled along somehow between Baxter and Madge during those months, and never did get the trick of doing her own hair. Anna’s hands had been cold when she visited, she’d been a little green behind her cheeks, behind those iron bars, after she demanded to speak to the Lady’s Maid, had stipulated to the warden that Lady Mary Crawley had every right to do as she so pleased, sergeant, and might he be so kind as to step aside. She’d taken a proper look at Anna then, and noticed that her face had seemed fuller, her stomach distended, jutting out in a way that seemed familiar to Mary, a way perhaps to her other visitors, Bates and Barrow and Mrs Hughes, it was not, and she’d bowed her head that night, for the first time since the war, kneeled beside her bed and prayed.

iv.

It had all come to a head after that, when her prayers came back half answered, when there was no more room in Anna’s prison dress to conceal the truth, and Bates had lunged, more than fallen, onto the knife, confessed to a crime he did not commit. Billy, he had said, over and over again that last day. Billy, take care of Mummy, he’d whispered into her stomach, round and full by then, pressing reverent kisses into her dress, to her swollen hands, and Mary could not look, could not turn away. Billy, after William Mason, she thinks, Billy, before they even knew it was a boy. The servants began filing out quickly then, two by two, clad in black and paired off, went their separate ways. Mrs Patmore first and Daisy soon after, to Mr Mason’s farm, she understands. Baxter and Molesley next, after a covert wedding in the registrar office, to run a guesthouse of some sort, a dream Anna said she’d had once, long ago. No more footmen in the dining room, and not even maids; only Carson and Barrow and three courses instead of five, until even Barrow packed his cases.

But then, that’s what happens when someone dies, she knows, understands all too well that your family is never complete again. And they were indeed a family, Mary discovered, when she’d gone to hold the maid’s hand on that dreadful evening, only to find her curled up in Mrs Hughes’ embrace, wracking, sobbing into her neck, only to see Carson’s hand laid softly against the back of her head and his large frame shielding both women, sheltering them, protecting in a way Mary could only describe as fatherly, husbandly. It had been all over the papers that year, which Richard Carlisle made a point of no doubt, but they were none of them strangers to scandal, and even that had not been the end.

v.

She did her own hair when she went for the christening of Tony Gillingham’s first daughter, his second child, said all the right things and all the wrong ones to Mabel, who was still jealous of her then, who still raises her nose a little higher when Mary walks into the room. There was yet some pleasure in it to be had, she admits, to know that she was an object of admiration, that even with the first sign of wrinkles near her eyes, she could still turn a head or two. Some pleasure, but not much, because she had been right in letting Tony go. From Charles Blake however, she never did hear again, had listened with feigned indifference as Edith read the papers out loud, informed them that Sir Severus had died and left him the baronetcy, a sizeable estate to match. She’d considered ringing him, offering her condolences, her congratulations, but then thought not. It was for the best this way, she decided, it would never have worked between them, is what Mary told herself, she could never have loved a man who watered her pigs and did not die of a broken heart.

vi.

Then one day, her grandmother was gone and Carson woke them all up after a telephone call from Spratt, stood there in the corridor in his nightclothes with Mrs Hughes at his side, a handkerchief folded in his hand. She’d hardly believed it then, hardly noticed when the tears began to fall and Papa had folded her into his arms. Finds it strange even now, to think of Granny as mortal as the rest of them, thinks maybe if she goes to the Dower house now, that Spratt would still be there to let her in, and she could still hear the sound of a walking stick against the floorboards. Can still hear her voice inside her head, chiding and unsentimental, saying you’ve missed the mark, Mary, telling her she told you so. But she has been spoilt by a perfect first love, her own particular fairy tale where an ugly sea monster revealed himself to be a hero, a man amongst men, and so she’d pointedly refused, reviled the idea of a mediocre second. Had relied on Carson’s support here, Carson who always said she deserved the best, that she would triumph in the end, and she’d believed him then, of course she did, had believed anything he told her since she was quite the little girl. Now she thinks that perhaps Granny was right after all, had always said that matters of the heart were a folly, but then, Granny had died with hers shattered and broken, shards of ruby in her chest.

vii.

It is Mama who stays in the Dower House now, Mama who would always be a foreigner to their ways, whose favourite had always been rebellious Sybil. Whom Mary asked to stay after they lost Papa, said that she would surely be desolate there all by herself, and that it didn’t matter anyway, since they were both Dowager Countesses now, since it was her little son who bore the name of His Lordship. But Mama wasn’t lonely, she realised soon enough, not more so than when Papa was alive, when he started to confuse his spoons and his words, started looking round corners, calling out for Isis, for his good dog, asking George if he had seen her in the gardens, George who doesn’t even remember Isis. Mama didn’t even seem discontent, not truly, not after those first trying months, and Mary had happened upon her singing the other day when she’d stopped by, singing and playing the pianoforte, with an easel beside her and an apron tied around her waist. She hadn’t known what a lovely voice her mother had, realised then that she doesn’t know her mother much at all.

viii.

And it took her a while to admit that it was she, in fact, who was lonesome, dispirited to have Anna as her only companion during the day, Anna who’d taken to motherhood well and widowing poorly, and to have only Carson at dinnertimes. Felt every bit her grandmother when Isobel became her solitary visitor, Isobel who is now widowed twice over, who bears the name of Dowager herself, and even she only comes to visit George. Knew that she had fallen too far when she decided to ring up Edith, ask her to come by for dinner. Would have claimed that George was secluded; of course, that he missed his Cousin Marigold since they’d moved to London, naturally, that he needed a playmate other than little Billy Bates. And how strange it was to be answered not by Edith herself, but by her personal secretary, who’d said no, miss, and that she was sorry, miss, but that Lady Edith was booked every night the entire week and might she take a message, miss.

ix.

In most ways, that evening had been the last, when it was thundering outside and she had not bothered with the lights, when she walked the length of the castle to Carson’s office, to find him not there, and followed the sound of his voice to Mrs Hughes’ sitting room next door. They were having a row, and it wasn’t like the affectionate squabbling Anna said they were so fond of, not like that at all. There had been tears, barely held back, and carefully chosen words that seemed vacant somehow, devoid of their true meaning. She was tired, said Mrs Hughes, so very tired, and Mary gathered that she did not mean physical exhaustion, though surely that must have been there, too. Had heard her own name towed in, and something about priorities, of being placed second. A few more months, he’d implored her, and there was desperation there, in his voice, maybe a year, he said, and then they could retire, could live in their little cottage together, if that was what she wanted. Mary turned around at that, went back up the way she came and waited for the dressing gong.

x.

There is talk of another war coming, another before they’ve even recovered from the first. And Mary knows for certain now that the end had been written from the start, that George will be called up in a few years and be handed his uniform, where he will look every inch his father and Mary will kiss him by the train, wish him such good luck. And then she will make her way home by foot, will pass through the Village Green and see her former servants, alive and well, Anna buying ice-creams, smiling with Daisy Mason, with Mr and Mrs Mason, and Carson lifting Billy Bates high in the air, Carson who had never seemed unhappy, but for the first time Mary would see happy, when he’ll catch the boy in his arms and Mrs Carson will tug at his tie, pull him down for a kiss. Then, she’ll walk by the churchyard and a stone edifice, place flowers down for Grandpapa and Granny, Papa and Sybil, Matthew and perhaps especially for Lavinia, she thinks. She’ll pray quietly then, for her son, her darling George, to be kept safe, not for a diminished dynasty, but because there is little else to be done, and he is all she has left. George who has just now come into the drawing room, holding his hat and a chatelaine, a string of keys. It’s time, Mama, is what he says to her, gives her the barest hint of a smile; they’re here. Yes, George, I know, is what she tells him, looks out the window to see her car and her cases stacked together neatly. She stands slowly then, takes her son’s hand in hers and they walk through the hall together, one final time, put on their own coats and lock the door behind them.


End file.
